GOD MADE THE WOMAN FOR THE MAN.--_Tennyson_.
"Oh, do stop and take me to tea in that lovely confectioner's shop!"
cries a pleading voice, while an eager hand flourishes a parasol which
pokes the driver in the back. "Oh, I wish I could speak the horrid
language."
"But, my dear," replies the man at her side, "you have only just had
your coffee and unlimited bon-bons. I want to show you Brussels
thoroughly. It is a most interesting town."
Eleanor Roche sighs. To her uncultivated mind the magnificent Hotel de
Ville, the Roman Catholic Churches, galleries, picturesque towers,
gables, and doorways of ancient buildings, hold but little charm.
She is madly excited about the bonnet and boot shops, the lace fans and
collars, chocolates, and ice creams.
Philip is bent on enlarging his wife's mind, and hopes to awake in her
his fervent love for art. Surely in time she will learn to appreciate
it. At present she is decidedly slow of comprehension. Though looking
lovelier than ever in her new Parisian toilettes, Eleanor disappoints
him. She talks perpetually of her appearance, dresses three or four
times a day, revels in admiring glances from male tourists, and
displays strange apathy when sight-seeing.
"How ugly the foreign women are!" exclaims Eleanor, "so short, plump,
and round. Why, even our miller's daughters could lick them into fits."
Her slang jars on him; but Eleanor is so sublimely unconscious of
offence and childishly contented with herself, that he has not the
heart to murmur.
Besides, even the touch of her small hand thrills him with the old
pleasure.
She surveys her feet admiringly.
"Did you ever see such lovely shoes? The points are like needles. It
would be wicked to walk in them. Oh, dear, where are we stopping now?"
"At the Church of St. Gudule. You must see it before we go. The
pulpit is wonderful."
Eleanor gathers up her silken skirts and steps lightly to the pavement.
She thinks this part of the honeymoon very dry, when there are cafés,
music, and shops at hand.
"Isn't the carving beautiful?" murmurs her husband, examining the
pulpit with fresh interest, from the fact that Eleanor is visiting his
favourite places.
"You see, dear," taking her arm, "it is supported on the Tree of
Knowledge and of Life. Adam and Eve are being driven out of Paradise
on one side by the Angel, while Death is gliding round with his dart."
"Ugh!" says Eleanor, shivering slightly, "what a nasty subject to
choose. If you had been Adam at Copthorne, and thought you would gain
anything by eating our apples, wouldn't you have devoured the
lot?--that is to say, if I, as Eve, had been unselfish enough to leave
any!"
She laughs at her own humour.
"It is scarcely a subject to jest upon," whispers Philip.
Eleanor's bright eyes sadden instinctively.
How has she displeased him?
"It is a marvellous piece of workmanship," he murmurs, as they move
away.
He wonders if Eleanor, who has never even heard of "Rubens," feels her
ignorance; but his thought is unconsciously answered by her careless,
yet happy, air when he imparts his wisdom. Her great, expressive eyes
seem to say: "I have no doubt it is very interesting to you, but I have
so much else to think of."
Having escaped from the bewildering pulpit out into the fresh air, her
spirits rise, while her fancy turns to the tempting pastry in the shop
windows.
She catches sight of her face and form in a mirror as they pass to one
of the small round tables, ordering coffee and cakes. Her heart
kindles with love for her own beautiful being. It is not actual
conceit, but genuine unbiassed admiration for Mother Nature's handiwork.
A young Englishman of insipid appearance is seated opposite, enjoying
the mild pleasure of an ice _à la panache_. He puts up his eyeglass
and stares at Eleanor. She returns the look frankly, taking in his
narrow forehead, ginger hair, and elongated neck.
"Newly married," thinks the man, noting the fresh lustre of her
jewellery.
"English," mentally ejaculates Eleanor, eyeing his scrupulously clean
linen.
"A woman to be loved and hated in the same breath," so runs his
masculine meditation. "Tantalising open eyes, without a blush in them,
and a face like the bust of Clytie."
"What is engrossing your attention, dearest?" whispers Philip, seeing
her pre-occupied.
"I am wondering if that young man's mother ever thought him handsome.
The nose might have been promising once, before the last half inch
grew, and his hair was gold when she first cut his ringlets."
Philip looks at the stranger's dissipated eyes, and despite the
apparent innocence which the hallowing presence of a guileless
ice-cream will temporarily shed over Lothario himself, sees the general
demoralisation that has set in.
"He is young to be blunted and coarsened," thinks Philip. Annoyed by
the impudent stare which possibly amuses rather than displeases his
wife, he tells Eleanor she has had enough, and rises to signify
departure. Lothario is still covering Clytie with his gaze. She
pauses to caress a lean black cat with hungry eyes, that has crept in
unobserved from the street. Hurriedly emptying a jug of cream in her
saucer, Eleanor is about to present it to the plaintiff stranger. Tom,
however, scents the cream, springs on his hind legs, and upsets the
liquid over her Parisian skirt.
The insipid young man starts forward, for Philip is paying at the
counter, and kneels at her feet to repair the damage with his
handkerchief.
Mrs. Roche stands watching helplessly, her lips curving into smiles.
"You are very kind," she murmurs, as his eyeglass falls amongst her
chiffons. "The cat was hungry, and now he won't get anything. Philip
will not stay and----"
She breaks off shortly, for her husband has turned and discovered the
youth on his knees before Eleanor, who, as he rises, slips his card
into her hand.
"I will see the cat is fed," he whispers.
She gives him a grateful glance, and explaining the incident to Philip,
hurries away, with the stranger's card hidden in her pale kid glove.
When she is back in the hotel, Eleanor looks at the name.
HERBERT DALLISON.
_Junior Conservative Club._
"I don't suppose we shall ever meet again," she says to herself
reflectively. "But he must so kindhearted, or he wouldn't have
troubled about my dress or the cat."
Though Eleanor Roche is so in love with her own lustrous eyes, she does
not yet realise how much goodwill they can win her. She has yet to
learn that the dangerous gift of a subtle charm may make or mar its
owner's life.
"We have only one more day here," says Philip, who had mapped out their
tour, "and I want you to see 'Waterloo,' dearest."
"Is it amusing?" asks Eleanor.
"Well, interesting is more the word,"
"Then I probably shall not care for it. The places you call
interesting are so dull!"
However, Philip carries out his plan, and takes her to the little
straggling village of Brane l'Alleud. The churchyard full of English
graves and monuments quite distresses Eleanor.
"To think of all these brave men dying nobly for their country, and
then being buried in this out-of-the-way place!" she exclaims.
"I suppose it is all the same to them," replies Philip.
"But I don't like the idea, nor am I fond of the sight of graves, and
the thought of death. Oh, Philip! what is that fat old man saying to
you?"
"He wants to show us a grave over the Marquis of Anglesea's leg, and is
the proud possessor of the house where it was amputated. It was buried
in a polished coffin, and has a monument erected to its memory. But
who are you eyeing so intently, Eleanor?" turning as he speaks. "Why!
If it isn't that impudent young puppy again, who mopped up the milk!"
"Cream, Philip, cream."
"Well! don't look at him, darling," putting his arm through hers to
draw her gently away. "We will escape from the voluble Belgian with
the leg story. He wants to show us the boot that once cased the foot.
Such a fuss about nothing!"
Eleanor returns to the carriage, but, as they drive to the huge mound
with the Belgic Lion on the summit, she is conscious that Herbert
Dallison is following.
For the rest of the day he always seems only a yard from her, as they
examine the red walls pitted by bullets, and wander round the Museum.
He has a party of friends with him--Eleanor can hear them chaffing the
guide, and ridiculing everything. Their absurd remarks amuse her, from
time to time she laughs for no apparent reason.
At last she owns to fatigue, and Philip leaves her, while he goes in
search of their carriage.
"Would you like some relics?" says a voice at her elbow.
Eleanor knows who is speaking before she looks round. Herbert Dallison
stands besides her, holding out a French forage cap, a bullet, and a
rusty sword broken off in the middle.
She seizes them delightedly.
"Thank you, thank you, but please go away," as Philip's figure looms in
sight.
She does not need to ask twice. Herbert Dallison seems to vanish into
thin air.
"You silly child!" cries Philip laughingly, "to spend your money on
those so-called 'relics' manufactured at Birmingham or Brussels to
beguile innocent tourists. A fresh crop of bullets and swords, I'm
told, is sown every year, that you may have the pleasure of seeing them
turned up yourself."
Eleanor smiles a little nervously. She is beginning to wish she had
not taken the presents. What would Philip say if he knew?
He helps her into the carriage with her spoil, the giver following with
his party in the rear.
Eleanor becomes momentarily more conscience-stricken; the sight of the
"relics" are hateful to her.
"I want to throw all this rubbish away," she cries at last. "It will
only be a worry to me."
"Very true," replies her husband.
"I know," a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Let me shy them out on
the road, and someone will think they have discovered real curiosities."
She stands up in childish glee, casting back a mocking smile at Herbert
Dallison. One by one she flings his gifts from her, with an expressive
look signifying second thoughts are best. He has taken his friends
into his confidence, and is horrified at the hilarious laughter which
breaks from them at Eleanor's act.
"Hang it all," he mutters, "it's beastly ungrateful; can't buy that
sort of rot for nothing."
But he is too proud to stop and recover his property; so a bullet, a
cap, and a sword are left by the wayside like the seed that was not
good, to pass into strange hands.
"Moral," cries Bertie's pal, slapping him on the back, "don't interfere
with honeymoon couples, they're abominably slow. Stick to widows, old
man, for the future."
At the word "widow" Bertie actually blushes. There is more sting in
this light chaff than his comrades suppose, for the vision of a villa
at Richmond with its dark-haired divinity rises between the dust of the
two carriages, soothing his ruffled feelings and drowning Eleanor's
fair form in the seas of forgetfulness.
The honeymoon slips by pleasantly.
Mrs. Roche enjoys the long railway journeys above everything, which
astonishes Philip, who thinks them the worst part of the trip.
"You see I so seldom go in trains," Eleanor says when he expresses
surprise. "I love to listen to the whizz of the engine, and see the
rushing, panting people on the stations worrying the grand officials in
their smart uniforms. Then it is so nice to be first-class, and lean
back on the cushions and cock up your feet if you wish. Besides, it is
awfully jolly just now to look out of the window and think."
"What do you think of?" asks her husband.
"All the beautiful presents you have given me, and the lovely house on
the terrace at Richmond where I am to live."
The pleasure she takes in little things is a daily marvel to Philip.
In the train, for instance, every moment she opens her dressing-bag, to
shake scent from a silver bottle over her hands or peep in a dainty
glass at her complexion. Each time they stop something fresh must be
bought--a bunch of grapes, a bag of red plums, flowers, and
unwholesome-looking tarts.
She actually purchases a tumbler of lager beer, drinking it with
relish, declaring it quite home-like and jolly.
Eleanor never worries about anything. Should the train be missed or
the luggage stray, it is all the same to her. An hour's wait on a dull
little platform is never grumbled at. "We'll just have to sit and
whistle," she declares, and amuses herself mimicking the porters, which
she succeeds in doing wonderfully well, while Philip, in spite of
numerous eccentricities, forgives her everything, and worships her
devotedly.
"Alas! that we have to return," he sighs, as they glide in a small boat
on the Lake of Geneva. "I must be back in the city this week."
"And you will make me _lots_ of money?" expanding her eyes and showing
her beautiful teeth.
"Won't you be contented with a little?"
"Oh, no. I want to entertain. You must bring your friends from
London, and the house you have so long neglected shall be packed with
guests."
"We'll see about that," says Philip, not liking to damp her ardour.
"YOU must remember, though, that I am not a walking gold mine, little
wife."
"Can the boatman understand what we say?"
"He only knows a smattering of English. What a strong, steady stroke
he pulls!"
Eleanor leans over the side, gazing down the clear depths. "I never
saw such wonderful water," she says, "you can see ever so far below.
How amusing it would be to drop pebbles in and watch them sink."
"Here is a stray one on the seat," said Philip, throwing it overboard.
Eleanor watches the descent with sparkling eyes.
"It is still in sight," she cries, "whirling through the water! My
word! how clear the lake is. I must see it again."
She glances round, but there are no more stones.
Before Philip has time to stop her she opens her purse and drops a coin
over the side of the boat.
"Look! there it goes," laughing lightly. "Isn't it fascinating?"
[Illustration: "Look! there it goes."]
The rower has stopped, and with eager, covetous eyes watches the wilful
waste. Those coins would mean bread to him and his children, while she
throws them to feed the deep! Another and yet another fall from her
slim hands.
Philip has turned quite pale with auger.
"Stop! Eleanor," he says, sternly, "you do not realise what you are
doing. It is wicked."
But she shrugs her shoulders and drops another.
"Do you hear what I say?" he mutters, grasping her wrist. "I'll have
no more of this. Look at that poor fellow's eyes; why, he would like
to murder you. It is enough to call down the judgment of Heaven upon
us."
"Just one more, only five centimes, Philip, and the man shall have all
that is left in my purse."
"No," he replies, still retaining her arm in an iron grip.
"Don't; you hurt me."
He removes his hand, and with a defiant look Eleanor flings the coin
into the lake, watching it whirl below with redoubled interest.
"Gott!" mutters the boatman under his breath, "what tevilry."
Then, without a sign of shame, Eleanor passes a handful of money to the
sunburnt fellow, casting a smile of ineffable sweetness upon him.
"For the little ones," she says.
But Philip's brow is still black.
"It was wicked," he repeats.
Eleanor only laughs.
"You deserve to want in the future."
"The future," she replies lightly, "who thinks of the future? It may
be dark enough to frighten the very life out of you--a thing to make
you scream----"
Philip shudders. Storm clouds are gathering overhead. This is the
last day of his honeymoon.